Consulting with a Consulting Detective --The Imaginary Journals Series
by LarkspurLilMoon
Summary: I become suspicious about explosions, kidnappings, and murders happening in London and find that one Sherlock is in the middle. After finding out more about this mysterious character, things get interesting and I, Neries, soon find myself in a little more adventure and mystery than I bargained for... *note please read at least to chapter 2. Chapter 1 is not super exciting.
1. Chapter 1: Curious Incidents

**_Chapter 1_**

**Curious Incidents**

The rain patters dismally against the glass of my window. I pull on my coat and grab an umbrella. On my way out of my flat, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My intent bright, shining, deep brown eyes look back at me as I blink my long, dark eyelashes, and my light brown hair waves and curls around my face in curtains, falling gently to my shoulders. I have high cheek bones, but not prominent. A fairly sharp chin, a smooth, youthful, adventurous face that is soft and gently curving, but not chubby, nor sunken. My nose turns slightly upward at the tip, and my face is covered in light freckles, and proportionately below my nose is my pink, healthy lips, full, but not bloated. I see all this in an instant, and look away again, whisking away down the stairs and out into the chilly, wet city.

I walk the cold London streets with my coat wrapped tightly around me, shivering slightly in the old town as the rain drizzles around me. I hurry into the closest little restaurant and sit down, ordering a cup of tea and a sandwich for dinner. I glance up at the television and see that some flats on Baker street have been partially exploded, due to a gas leak, according to the reporter, but I get a funny feeling about it all the same... as if it _wasn't_ a gas leak, but something more sinister; however I continue sipping my hot, comforting tea and worry about it no longer.

But today, a day after the Baker street "gas leak" I keep a watch on the telly, because of that funny feeling still lingers. The news is about a woman who was kid-napped, strapped to a bomb and put in an abandoned car. Now she was being rescued. My stomach squirms. _Coincidence_ I think. But I feel otherwise.

Another day since, I see on the news, a very similar incident, with someone else being rescued from a bomb they'd been fastened to. My suspicions grow deeper within me.

It's been three days since the first explosion, and I stop in a café and sit down, still on the alert for anything unusual. Having nothing to do, I look around, and spot two men looking rather serious, one with a prominent profile, high, sharp cheekbones, intense, piercing light blue eyes, a slightly hooked nose and curly raven-black hair, not eating at all. The other is shorter and slightly stocky, with more wrinkles, with dark blue eyes, and trimmed golden brown-blond hair, enjoying breakfast himself. I tune my ears toward them, because it feels like there's a warm nagging in my belly, gnawing at me after the first explosion, and for some reason, I feel like they're connected.

I catch some of what the shorter of the two are saying "Sherlock…the bomber's playing games with you?...envelope…breaking into…flat,…kid's shoes…meant for you." My attention sharpens a great deal. Bomber? Maybe that feeling when I was in the restaurant, and the other times I had seen the news _wasn't_ just folly.

The raven-haired man inclines his head slightly and murmurs something that I don't hear, but I make out the words "Yes, I know" on his lips. A few moments later the pink phone next to him bings. I feel confused, because neither of them seems to be the type to own the phone, but the taller of the two answers it and looks intently at it, while it lets out three beeps. "Sherlock" looks confused at what must have been a photo on the screen and I catch the word "anybody."

I hear part of a phrase from the man sitting across from him say " too much telly" and he gets up and turns on the T.V., and switches to a channel about a woman who does a make-over show suddenly dying. Again I have that funny feeling but it's stronger, and a slight chill, despite the fact that it's quite warm in the café as I eat breakfast.

A few seconds after the television was turned on by his companion, the pink phone rings, and the man answers. "Hello?" he says. As he listens to his caller, his eyebrows draw together, just slightly, and he looks intent as he listens. As his shorter companion rejoins him, the taller casts him a meaningful look. And then I hear quite clearly from "Sherlock" "Why are you doing this?" while his friend looks with trepidation at him. "Sherlock" slowly takes the phone away from his ear and hangs up, shaking his head, just barely, at his friend. They both leave the café a few minutes later, but as they leave, the taller of the two glances at me, and I hurriedly look away, but I feel his gaze remaining on me as he leaves the cafe.

…Sherlock. I won't forget that name. It's unusual, and he has quite a memorable profile. I'm sure he's somehow in the mess of the strange events occurring lately, making me even less likely to forget this stranger's name.

This evening, after a warm day exploring more of the city, and after the strange events of the morning, I turn the telly to watch the news, because deep down, I feel like an explosion going to happen again. Today, I was not mistaken. After flipping past a channel with an advertisement about the lost Vermeer painting being found, I see another explosion has happened, killing twelve people, and my heart goes cold. A gas leak again. I know that something isn't right this time.

I immediately get up and get out my laptop and Google "Sherlock" The top two results are the blog of Dr. John Watson, and I see from his picture he is the shorter of the two men I saw in the café earlier that day. I also see below it a site designed by Sherlock Holmes called "The Science of Deduction" As I explore, I find that "Sherlock" is a brilliant detective, and this "John" is his friend and blogger. I become intrigued further as I read more and more. So far, there are only two true cases logged on Watson's blog: "A Study in Pink" and "The Blind Banker" along with some other notes. "The Science of Deduction" is Sherlock explaining his powers and how he figures certain things out. It seems unbelievable, but I am inclined to believe it all the same. There are also strange posts or messages, which I am almost certain came from the bomber, because they are similar to what John had mentioned: the stuff about playing a game.

After some more research, I find out that they live at 221B Baker's Street, where the explosions happened, and it doesn't surprise me at all.

I'm very intrigued by this "Sherlock" and I want to know what's going on. He seems to be my best bet for answers. I also wish to learn more about him, and what he does, after everything I've read. So, with nothing better to do, I fetch my coat and umbrella and take a cab to 221B Baker's Street.

_Okay, I know, not super exciting, but thanks for reading! Please continue atleast to the next chapter... it gets more interesting! _


	2. Chapter 2: Meeting the Great Detective

**_Chapter 2_**

**Meeting the Great Detective**

I knock on the door of the flat, and the landlady, whom I know to be Mrs. Hudson from the blog, answers the door. "Hello, are Sherlock and John upstairs?" I ask.

She looks confused, but nods, and probably passes me off as another client. As I knock on the upstairs door, John answers and when he sees me he says, "A client? We can't take any-"

But Sherlock, when he glances up at me, cuts John off, "No, not a client," and he looks at me with his piercing gaze, and I can tell he recognizes me from the café that morning.

John looks confused but politely invites me in.

Sherlock scrutinizes me from the sofa, appraising me, sizing me up, and probably figuring me out, if everything on the sites I'd found were to be true.

"Alright, my name is Neries Tripull, and you probably don't know why I'm here," I pause and look at Sherlock, "Though you might…" I pause and tell Sherlock, "You may as well go ahead, and do what you do best. I want to see if it's true."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows slightly, considering, but he looks satisfied as he starts in, "You are 22 years of age, and have been at college in America for four years. You are athletic, but only in individual sports. You love nature, and you play the piano and the violin. You are single relationship wise. You are fairly intelligent and have always gotten good grades in school. You were also at the same café this morning, and as of yet… I'm not sure why you're here," he looks slightly disgruntled about this.

I smile mischievously, and my mind is made up now. But before I ask on _that_ count, I want to know what's going on, and I state so.

"What do you mean?" John asks.

"I mean all the strange things happening lately: the explosions, the murders, the people getting kidnapped and strapped to bombs. I overheard some of what you were saying in that café this morning, and I know that you _must_ know something about it; that you're connected to this mess somehow. So, I want to know _what's_ going on."

John looks surprised and slightly confused, but Sherlock looks mildly impressed.

After a few seconds of silence, John looks to Sherlock questioningly, "Um… Sherlock, should we-" but he stops as Sherlock nods.

"Alright, Neries, after the first explosion, Sherlock received an envelope addressed to him, with a phone resembling the one from a "Study in Pink", but do you know?" I nod hurriedly and gesture him to go on, "There were five beeps, or five pips, telling us that the bomber was going to do it again, as well as a photo of inside 221C, the flat downstairs. When we went in, there was a pair of shoes in the middle of the floor. Sherlock then got a call from the phone from the envelope, and a kidnapped woman told him that he had 12 hours to solve the puzzle of the shoes. He figured out that the shoes belonged to Carl Powers, a swimmer, who had died because of poison in his foot cream, paralyzing him and causing him to drown in the pool. After solving it, he posted on his website, and then the woman was released. The next day, he got a second puzzle, this time on one of the police's phones. He was given 8 hours to solve his next puzzle, and he solved this one as well. The third one he received in the café this morning, and it was to solve Connie Prince's death. He solved it: botox poison in the face cream. But the old woman, whom was his "voice" and was strapped to the bomb, was blind and when she started describing the bomber's voice, he killed her. The explosion also killed 11 others. That's what's happened so far…" John said hesitantly.

The more I listen, the more certain I become. I look at Sherlock, and addressing him, I say, "There's one more thing I want to ask. Do I have to ask it?" Sherlock studies me for several seconds, while I gaze back steadily, wondering if he'll catch on. Then comprehension dawns on his face.

He looks away and shakes his head, "No."  
"I'm not taking that as an answer."  
"I'm sorry. What exactly-?" but John is cut off by Sherlock

"When I say no, I _mean_ no."

I smirk, "Not this time you don't. I can tell."

Sherlock looks a tiny bit surprised, but covers it up quickly. "It'd be a waste of both of our time."

"No, it wouldn't. You can't say that I don't make you just a little curious."

"Yes I can!" Sherlock says, starting to look seriously annoyed.

"No, I don't think so."

"You can't read me."

"Not as well as you can read me, but just a little, I think can."

"Not enough potential, sorry."

"Look," I say, "I want to help and I want to learn."

Sherlock just glowers at me, irritated, but he's intrigued, I can tell, but "No." He states solidly. "Now go back to your own flat." I sigh heavily, but I won't give up just yet.

"Can I have a cup of tea before I leave?" but Sherlock is purposely ignoring me now.

John, looking bemused and annoyed, but still _trying_ to be polite says, "Of course, I'll go put the tea kettle on for you."

I smile and nod at him, "Thanks." I say.

I follow him into the kitchen. "Okay, John, do you want to know what that was about?"

He looks relieved and nods.

"I want to learn from him. I've learned a lot about him and his skill just now and from both yours and his websites… I've always imagined and hoped to meet someone like him… to be able to go on an adventure. I kind of… want to apprentice him. I also want to help… I don't want anyone else to get hurt, including you two… you're still caught up in this whole mess."

John looks a little surprised and shrugs, "Well… I can't say he _wasn't_ intrigued… but it's hard to tell, you know; it's Sherlock…" He pauses awkwardly, "Let's go back into the sitting room while we wait for the kettle."

I nod and accompany him back into the sitting room.

Sherlock ignores our re-entry. He has a violin out and is playing a thoughtful tune. As John sees and hears this he smiles knowingly. I however don't know what it means and just raise an eyebrow at him. John shakes his head, telling me that he'll tell me later.

We hear the kettle whistle a few minutes later, and John and I get up to get ourselves some tea.

I look at John, "So what was with the violin, then?" I ask, "You acted like it meant something… more."

John smiles, "It means he's thinking… he's not on a case right now. So, there's only one thing that could make him suddenly start deeply thinking." He winks at me. I smile back.

John takes his cup, ready to go back into the sitting room, and looks confused when I don't follow. "I'll drink it in the kitchen. You go on." John looks confused but shrugs and goes into the sitting room with Sherlock.

I hear the violin playing pause, and some murmured words. "…in the kitchen" I hear John say. I sip my tea.

I look around at the cluttered mess of contraptions and the makings of strange experiments.

I hear words from the other room, "…try it?...new experience… learn something."

"what…I… to learn?...No."

"it couldn't hurt…"

"Yes it could."

"How?"

A pause, then, "Her… too young… dangerous."

There is silence after that. I come quietly into the sitting room with my cup of tea. Sherlock and John turn away from each other, trying to act as though they hadn't been discussing me: the curious new incident. I look at Sherlock, "I'm plenty old enough to make my own decisions, and life is boring without danger. You're the one always craving the intellectual problems and the thrill of the chase."

Sherlock shrugs slightly, and doesn't look at me, saying nothing.

I sigh, and walk over to John. "Thanks for the tea," I say, handing him the cup. I cast a disgruntled, resentful look towards Sherlock. I grab a notebook and a pen from my pocket and write down my phone number. "Here's my number, if _either_ of you would like to contact me." I say, and rip the paper out, and begin handing it to John, but Sherlock puts out his hand. I raise my eyebrows, and he silently holds his hand out for the piece of paper. Suspiciously I give it to him. He looks at me, nods curtly and then turns away. "Good-bye, then." I say, somewhat exasperated. John waves as I head out the door of 221B.


	3. Chapter 3: Waterloo Bridge

**_Chapter 3_**

**Waterloo Bridge**

Irked, I slam the door to my own flat, and throw myself on the bed, huffing. I had _finally_ met someone who can give me adventure, and who is intriguing and can teach me amazing, almost super-power like skills, and I'd been turned down!

I think to the conversation Sherlock and John had just had. Sherlock was worried about me? I smirk into the pillow. How amusing that really is. I doubt he was all _that_ worried about my well-being. But it _was_ a good excuse to give John. Now _John_ would be less likely to want me "apprenticing" Sherlock. Sherlock was impressed though, I could tell, at the fact that I put the pieces together and the had _done_ something about it. He had also taken the number I'd written down. Whether that was just so he could throw it away and keep it out of John's reach…

"Urgh…" I moan into my pillow. I sit up and get out my laptop. Opening it, I go and check his site. Posted there is, as John said, is a message answering the puzzle of Connie Prince's murder: "Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox." I sigh. No use worrying about it now. It's up to Sherlock and John.

The next day I keep my phone on, and later that morning, I'm rewarded. My phone rings, and I pick it up, "Hello?" I ask hopefully and back comes a voice I'm happy to hear. "Yes, Neries, it's John. Sherlock got another puzzle on the pink phone. It's down between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge, if you'd care to join us." I beam into the phone, "Yes! I'm on my way!" I bound down the steps of my flat and call a cab and catch a ride to the place.

When I arrive, John sees me and waves. I make my way towards them, and a man with peppered silvery hair, blue eyes, and some weather-worn wrinkles looks at me, confused, "Who are you?"

John immediately answers, "She's with us, Lestrade." He says.

Sherlock doesn't even glance at me, "She's with him," he corrects.

Lestrade still looks confused, but nods and lets me into the crime scene, since there wasn't much arguing with the two of them. Lestrade turns back to Sherlock, and I watch from a distance. "Any ideas?" Lestrade asks Sherlock.

"Seven, so far." He answers, looking at the water-logged corpse.

"Seven!?" Lestrade says incredulously.

Sherlock looks around the corpse with his small magnifier and then steps aside and gestures John to look while he gets out his phone. I myself step closer to the body. There are bruises around the nose and mouth, suggesting he was suffocated, not drowned. There is a belt with empty loops around it, which have mostly been emptied. He looks to be in a sort of uniform, but besides that, I can't make much out without getting closer, and I'm wary of that.

John starts in on his own observations, "He's dead about 24 hours, maybe a bit longer… Did he drown?" He inquires of Lestrade.

Lestrade opens his mouth, but before he speaks, I answer the question, "No," I answer. "More likely he was suffocated, due to the bruises around his nose and mouth." Lestrade looks at me, confused and slightly impressed. Sherlock casts a discreet sideways glance, his eyebrows raised appraising me, interested.

Lestrade looks at me, "Okay, _who_ are you?" he asks.

"Name's Naries Tripull," in an undertone I say, "I'm hoping to apprentice Sherlock," Lestrade raises an eyebrow, amused, but impressed.

He nods and turns back to John, "No, he didn't drown. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs, apparently."

"Yes, I'd agree," John concurrs, and then, glancing at me, restates a bit of what I said, "Quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here, and here," John says, pointing.

"Fingertips…" Sherlock says quietly, and I smile slightly. It sounds like I was right.

"Probably in his late 30's, I'd say, not in the best condition," John voices, looking up at Sherlock.

"He's been in the river a long while, the river's destroyed most of the data," Sherlock states suddenly, looking up from his phone and out over the river, then he looks at Lestrade, satisfied, "But I'll tell you one thing: That Lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

Lestrade simply looks his bemusment, "What?"

Sherlock carries on without answering Lestrade's question, "We need to identify the corpse, find out about his friends and associ-"

Lestrade cuts him off, "Wait, wait wait, what _painting?_" he asks, and I answer for him, before Sherlock.

"It's all over: posters, the telly. They say they found the Lost Vermeer painting, that was supposed to be destroyed centuries ago. I think what Sherlock's getting at is that he was killed _because_ this painting was a fake and he knew about it." I watch Sherlock for confirmation.

Sherlock nods curtly without looking at me, and says to Lestrade, "Have you ever heard of the Golem?" I nod at Sherlock vigourously, but he, and everyone else ignore me, and I grimace, annoyed.

"Golem…" says Lestrade, shaking his head.

John cuts in, "It's a… horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" I nod, and then shrug at John, who gives me an understanding look.

I cut in, "It's a folk story-"

"Jewish," Sherlock interjects, and I nod, rolling my eyes.

"About a gigantic made of clay." I finish.

"It's also the name of an assassin," Sherlock cuts in, "Real name Oscar Zinza, one of the deadliest assasins in the world," Sherlock points down at the body, "That is his trade-mark style."

"So, this is a hit?" Lestrade asks, also looking down at the corpse.

"Definitely," Sherlock and I say at the same time. He gives me an annoyed glance and continues, "The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"Yes but I don't see how this killing is connected with the painting-" Lestrade starts.

"You do _see_, you just don't observe!" says Sherlock

"Alright, alright, _girls_, calm down." John interjects. I smirk and chuckle quietly.

I interpolate this time, "He was killed because the painting's a fake, I already said." I reply, annoyed.

John glances at me, and then looks at Sherlock, "Sherlock, do you want to take us through it?"

Sherlock looks pleased and starts in on his soliloquy, "What do we know about this corpse? Killer's not left us with much: just the shoes, the shirt, the trousers. But pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy duty- polyester, gastly, same as the shirt, cheap, and they're both too big for him."

"So it's a uniform," I articulate quietly, but loud enough for all three of them to hear.

Sherlock simply continues, "…Dressed for work then. What kind of work? There's a hip on his belt, for a walkie-talkie," he prounouces, looking at Lestrade.

"Sheep driver?" Lestrade asks, shaking his head slightly

"Security guard?" John and I ask at the same time.

Sherlock ignores me and answers John, "More likely, that would be borne out by his backside."

"His backside?" Lestrade asks.

"Flabby, you think that he'd let a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the veins in his legs show otherwise. So a lot of walking _and_ a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. The watch helps too. His watch shows he did a regular night-shift."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died." Lestrades asks.

"No, no, no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched."

"He set his alarm like that awhile ago, meaning his schedule didn't change." I cut in.

Sherlock gives me a fleeting, glaring, speculative look, and then persists, as though he had said it and not me, "There's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge on the shirt-front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man works somewhere recognizable."

I interrupt, "An establishment, like a museum or gallery!" I exclaim, connecting the dots, "That would explain the painting," I shrug.

Sherlock considers me more closely, but I can tell he wants to finish his spiel, "I found this," he says, holding up a wet, wadded piece of paper, "inside his trouser pockets, sodden by the river, but still recognizably."

"Tickets?" John asks, staring at me. Museum or gallery was looking good.

"Yes, museum or gallery," Sherlock states, giving me a quick look, "I did a quick check, the Hickery gallery has reported one of its attendance as missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now _why_ would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant?" Sherlock asks us.

I grimace, "I already said, because he probably knew something he shouldn't have: he knew that the painting was a fake."

"Yes, something that would stop the owner getting paid the 30 milllion pounds it's worth. The picture's a fake."

After a short pause, John says, "Fantastic," smiling and shaking his head slightly.

"Meretricious," Sherlock shrugs slightly.

"And a Happy New Year," Lestrade says, and I grin widely.

"Well said." John says, looking at me.

"I better get my feelers out for this Golem character." Lestrade says.

"Pointless, you'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock smiles mischieviously.

"You." I say at the same time Sherlock says, "Me." Sherlock looks at me again, searching for something, glaring slightly in concentration, but turns away shortly without looking me directly in the eyes.

He strides off toward the main streets. John jogs to catch up with him, and I follow, slightly behind. And, again, I hear some of what they're saying.

"Oh, come _on_ Sherlock, she was much quicker than either Lestrade or me, and she didn't even have a look at the body! Both of us had!"

Sherlock shrugs and doesn't reply, quickening his stride.

John sighs, and falls back next to me, "Don't mind him," he gripes, "I think he's taken a liking to you and doesn't want to admit it."

I smile, "Sincerely?" I ask John.

He shrugs, "I think so… but he's Sherlock. It's hard to tell with him. Do you want to come with?" he asks gesturing at Sherlock.

Glowing inside with excitement and hope, I nod eagerly, and John and I lengthen our stride to catch up with the tall, dark-haired man ahead of us.


	4. Chapter 4: A Painting and an Umbrella

**_Chapter 4_**

I slide into the cab next to John, John next to Sherlock. On the way, Sherlock suddenly stops the cab. We hop out, and Sherlock gives some money to a random homeless person, saying he's investing. I understand: he's using her to find out some information.

At the gallery, Sherlock gets out. John starts to follow him.

"No," he says to John, "I need you to follow out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrad will give you the address," He looks at me and speaks to me for the first time since our row yesterday, "You go with John," He says curtly, and then shuts the door to the cab and goes into the gallery as John phones Lestrade, then tells the cabby the address.

When we arrive, a rather morose, plump lady with a messy pony tail of black hair shows us around, "We've been sharing about a year, you know," she says to us, "just sharin'," John and I look about the untidy room.

John points to something beneath a blanket that we can't see, "May I?" he asks. She nods, and he pulls off the fabric to reveal a telescope.

"Star-gazer was he?" John asks her as I look more closely around the flat. A messy bed, some astronomy books and charts on his book shelf and bed-side table.

"God, yeah," she says, "Mad about it. All he ever did in his spare time," she replied.

I narrow my eyes at the statement, looking more closely at the charts and books. So… he liked astronomy.

"He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him. He was, uh," she paused, sniffing, "never much of a one for hoverin'." She said stuffily, with a almost a slight laugh at the statement.

John paused and then asked, "What about art? Did he know anything about that?"

I roll my eyes. Many professional artists had looked at that painting and confirmed it to be the real thing. It wasn't _art_ that was wrong with the painting, but I say nothing, and simply watch.

Her answer doesn't surprise me, "It was just a job," she says with a slight shrug.

There are several seconds of silence and I decide to fill it, "Has anyone asked about Alex?" I ask inquire of her kindly.

"No," she says, "A break-in, though."

"What, when?" John and I both say, our timing slightly off.

"Last night," she says, "Nothing taken, though…Oh, there was a message left for Alex on the landline."

"Who was it from?" John posed.

"Well, I can play it for you, if you like, I'll get the phone."

"Please," I say.

She plays the message, "Oh, should I speak now? Alex, it's Professer Ken. Listen, you were right, you were bloody well right. Give us a call, then."

"Professor Kens?" John asks.

"No idea, sorry," She ripostes.

"Can we call back?" I ask, looking at the phone.

"Well, no good, no other calls since sympathy ones," she shrugs apologetically.

John's phone makes a ringing noise, and he opens it up to see the text. I lean in slightly to see it. "Have you spoken to West's fiancé yet? ~Mycroft Holmes."

"Sherlock's brother?" I inquire.

"Yeah," John nods, "He bloody rules the British government secretly," then more quietly he mumbles, "Bloody secret service," He looks around. "Let's go," he says quietly, "I'll tell you more about it in the cab."

We leave and climb back into the cab, "So," I say, "Mycroft?" I voice again.

"Yeah…" John says, "He has a 'small position in the British government,' but he pretty much runs it. I should warn you, he'll probably try to contact you, and _not _in a normal way." John rolls his eyes, "He'll probably have black cars follow you around, and try to call you via telephone booths you pass. Don't be alarmed, he just likes to impress you and 'avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes.'" He shakes his head. "Do you care to interview West's fiancé with me?" I shrug, not particularly interested.

John gets out at flats near the London railway, while I wait outside in the cab, thinking.

That evening, John and I go back to 221B, where Sherlock stands outside, and finds out what John knows. He then takes a note from the homeless he had given to earlier in the day.

He reads the note and then says to John, "Fortunately, _I_ haven't been idle. Come on." As I move to slide into the cab with them, Sherlock says, "No, this part's dangerous. You stay in our flat."

I open my mouth to argue, but both he and John give me looks. Angrily, I turn about and stomp into the flat and sit on the sofa of 221B, grumpy. Why did I have to stay behind just because it was dangerous? It could have been fun! Probably would be fun… I sulk on the sofa, waiting for John to call.

It's a good twenty minutes before they come by. John dashes in. "Come on, Neries, I'll tell you what happened on the way. We need to get to the Hickman gallery."

I leap up and follow him quickly back down the stairs. We quickly hop in the cab. The cab takes off, and John tells me all about adventures chasing the Golem. I listen crossly, but still intrigued. They had found him at Vauxhall Bridges, but he had gotten away, and John had looked up Professor Kens, from the message machine in the book. They were too late to save her, and then a battle ensued between the three of them, and Golem ended up getting away.

When we arrive, Lestrade and the lady in charge, Ms. Wincelessness, are all gathered around. Sherlock stands in front of the painting, "It's a fake, it has to be," he utters as he looks on his phone.

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Ms. Wincelessness says in her thick accent, annoyed.

"It's a very good fake then," Sherlock says, frustrated, he turns to her, "You know about this don't you!? This is _you_ isn't it?"

She does her best to look amused, "Inspector, my time is being wasted," she tells Lestrade, "Do you mind showing yourself, and your," she gives Sherlock a sweeping, disdainful look, "friends… out?"

At that moment, the pink phone rings. Sherlock hurries to answer, "The painting is a fake," he snaps at the phone. There is no answer except for heavy breathing. "It's a fake! That's why Woodbridge and Kens were killed," There is still no answer. Sherlock puts his head back slightly, dissatisfied, "Oh, come on, proving it's just a detail." He grumbles at the phone, "The painting is a fake! I've solved it, I've figured it out!" He rants, "It's a fake, that's the answer! That's why they were killed!" He breathes deeply, annoyed, composing himself, closing his eyes in frustration, and resigned, he says, "Okay, I'll prove it, give me time. Will you give me time!?" he demands of the phone.

This time there is an answer, "10," a small, child's voice says. Sherlock instantly whips around to face the painting.

Lestrade looks worried, "It's a kid, oh… God, it's a kid!"

"What did he say?" John asks.

"10," Sherlock answers, "He's counting, he's giving me time."

"The painting's a fake, but how, can I prove it, how!?" he demands of the picture, panicing slightly. He turns to Ms. Wincelessness and shouts, "This kid will die! Tell me why the painting is a fake, TELL ME!... No, shut up, I have to figure out on my own. It must be, it must be, it must be staring me in the face!" he says, quiet and quick.

I want to shout out. I don't know the answer, but I know how he can get it. As the kid counts down, I can't take it, "Astronomy!" I shout at Sherlock. My eyes widen and I cover my mouth. Sherlock gasps and claps his hands together, "Of course!" he shouts. Scared, I look at the phone, and am relieved when I hear the next number, "6," He didn't kill the child because of my outburst.

Excited, Sherlock exclaims how beautiful it is. "What is?" John asks.

"3," the kid says.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yells.

Sherlock grabs the phone, "The Cambrian Super-Nova!" he exclaims, and the counting stops.

"Please, please, help me," the child says.

"Go find out where he is and pick him up," Sherlock says, handing the phone to Lestrade, and exhaling, relieved and pleased to know the answer.

"Cambrian Super-Nova," Sherlock says, pointing to a star on the painting, "Only appeared in the sky in 1858."

John chuckles, breathless, looking at the painting, "So how could it have been painted in the 1640's?"

We leave, following Sherlock out the door, and we all head to the police station, where Lestrade waits with Ms. Wencelessness.

We sit in the station, and Sherlock contemplates the ceiling, "It's interesting… Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a rogue legend, and _you_, Ms. Wencelessness. This whole case has a distinctly _Czech_ feeling about it. Is that where this leads?" he demands.

She is quiet, and Lestrade says that Ms. Wencelessness is looking at criminal conspiracy, fraud, the murder of the old woman, the people in the flats…"

"I didn't know anything about any of that!" She cries desperately, "Please, believe me." Sherlock gives Lestrade a small nod, letting him know that she's telling the truth. She says that she wanted her share of the money, after finding a man brilliant with plush work, "Could fool anyone," she says, and Sherlock makes a skeptical noise, "Well… nearly anyone." She amends. "It was just an idea. A spark, which he blew into a flame."

"Who?" Sherlock immediately asks.

She shakes her head, says she doesn't know and Lestrade laughs. Sherlock leans forward, interested, alert, intent. She says there was never real contact, just messages, whispers.

Sherlock leaned forward, "And did those whispers have a _name_." he hisses, focused completely upon her.

She nods hesitantly, and says, "Moriarty."

Sherlock leans back, putting his hands together and smiling slightly.

I head back to my flat that evening, disappointed that the excitement for today was at an end. However, on the way, I walk down the street, watching for an open cab, and a telephone booth to my right rings. I smirk, thinking about John telling me about Mycroft. This must be him. However, I continue walking, and notice a black car discreetly following me. The next telephone booth I pass, the phone also rings. Rolling my eyes, I step into the booth and answer the phone.

"Hello. Get in the car," says a slow, meticulous commanding voice which I assume belongs to Mycroft. More out of curiosity than fear, I climb into the black vehicle running next to the phone booth. There is a woman texting constantly next to me whom I don't talk to.

The car pulls up to an abandoned factory, and drives behind it. I sigh. A nice, secluded location. _So_ cliché. When the car pulls up, I get out without being asked or told.

A man with short dark neat hair, dark blue eyes, a high forehead, arched eyebrows, and slightly pointed ears that stuck out to the sides a bit stands there. He has a demeanor of superiority and organization. He wears an expensive, neat suit, and has nothing but an umbrella. I stride towards him, rather amused.

He considers me. I look steadily back at him, one eyebrow raised, standing up straight, and looking him in the eye.

"You aren't frightened?" He wonders aloud, and it's the same voice that was on the telephone.

"Should I be?" I reply with a question of my own.

"Well, it certainly would be understandable. You are phoned in a telephone booth, and picked up by a mysterious black car, brought to a deserted place and meet someone you don't know."

I shrug slightly. "There are worse situations to be in."

He raises his eyebrows, thinking about my response, and then lifts his shoulders slightly in consent, "I suppose," he responds slowly. Then he looks directly at me, leaning on the umbrella at his side, "Let's get to the point," he says, giving a small nod and smiling slightly, "What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

I ponder my answer, unsure how to respond, "I met him yesterday, after seeing he was involved in some… strange events."

He gives a short chuckle, "Yes, that _does _sound like him. But since then, you've started solving crimes with him, and he's even allowed you to stay shortly inside his own flat."

I smile slightly. I hadn't thought of it that way. Despite how slowly _I_ felt things were going, his explanation put things into perspective.

"I want to learn from him."

He raises his eyes, curious and surprised. He doesn't ask however, "You haven't asked who I am."

"That's because I'm pretty sure I already know."

He looks amused and skeptical, "Really?" he asks condescendingly.

"Yes, _Mycroft,_ I do."

He looks taken aback, but covers it up quickly. He looks down at the ground as he twirls his umbrella, and then looks back up at me, "John told you about me?"

I nod, "Yes, that and I guessed. So, are we done here then?"

"That depends," Mycroft replies, "I'm willing to offer you a considerable sum of money for… a service."

I let out a small laugh, "You want me to spy on him?" I answer the unsaid question, "No thanks, but I have plenty to do exactly what I want to for now, thank-you."

Mycroft sighs dramatically, "Alright, if that's your view of the matter." He walks away for no apparent reason or destination, twirling his umbrella. I smile, amused, and walk back to the black car. I ask the girl in the black outfit texting away to take me to 221B, Baker's Street. She smiles mischievously without looking at me and nods, still texting away as the black car pulls back onto the road.


	5. Chapter 5: Train Tracks

**_Chapter 5_**

**Train Tracks**

I arrive back at 221B, but John and I soon take off for the railway where West died after I catch up on what's going on with the case.

When we arrive, a slightly balding man who doesn't seem too intelligent shows us the spot, "You the police?" he asks John and me.

I shrug and John says, "Sort of…"

"I hate 'em," the man says.

"The police?" I ask, confused.

"Na, jumpers," he says to me, "people who chuck themselves in front 'a trains. Selfish bastards…"

"Well that's… one way of looking at it," John replies.

"I mean it. It's a'right for them," he says, looking down at us as we both crouch beside the railway, "It's over in a split second, strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, eh? They gotta live with it, 'aven't they?"

I look at the railway, and I meet John's eyes. I can tell we're thinking the same thing. I stand up, "Has the blood been cleaned off, then?" I ask him, glancing at the clean track.

"No, there weren't that much," he says, shaking his head slightly.

"You said his head was smashed in," John says, looking confused.

"It was, but there weren't much blood," he says, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

I raise my eyebrows, slightly condescending. Obvious: West had been killed somewhere else, and his body had been _planted_ on the track, to make it _look_ like accident or a suicide.

"Okay…" John says suspiciously.

"Well… leave ya to it, then," the man says, walking off, "Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right…" John says, as he examines the track again.

"So… right then. Andrew West got on the train somewhere, or did he?" he asks me.

I smile and shake my head, rolling my eyes. "John, he was _obviously_ killed somewhere else and brought here to make it _look_ like an accident or suicide. There wasn't a train ticket found on the body, right?" I look at him for confirmation, and he nods, "So, then, he's killed somewhere else, and someone either drags him here, or puts him on top of a train or something, making his body end up here," I explain.

John looks mildly impressed, and nods, agreeing with me. At that moment, part of the track moves, making a bump and a curve. I smirk and nod, as John crouches down to look at the place the track switched. "Alright then, putting the body on top of a train is looking good, then," I say, satisfied.

I hear light, quiet footsteps behind us, "Points," a deep and very recognizable voice says behind us.

John jumps, "Yikes!" he hisses under his breath, spinning around on his heels and standing up to see Sherlock. I start slightly, but not as much as John after hearing the quiet footstep.

Sherlock looks at John, "You'd get there eventually," he casts me a sidelong glance.

"How long have you been following us?" John asks, annoyed.

"Since the start," Sherlock replies nonchalantly, still directing his words exclusively at John, as if I wasn't there. I roll my eyes slightly. Classic silent treatment. "You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just despite my brother, do you? Come on, we've got a bit of burglary to do." He says to John, striding off, and expecting us to follow.

We follow, John less willingly and after we've reached the main street, Sherlock states, "The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it." He strides next to John, still ignoring me as though I'm not even here. "Despite what people think, we do still have a secret service."

"I know, I've met them." John and I say at almost the same time.

"Which means whoever has the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it."

"Probably doesn't know what to do with it," I cut in.

Sherlock scrutinizes me, disgruntled that I stole his effect. John looks at both of us, slightly amused. Sherlock pretends like I didn't say anything. "Yes, the latter." He avoids my gaze again, not wanting to admit that he was agreeing with me. "We're here," he tells John.

"Where?" John asks Sherlock.

Sherlock turns into a place with flats, and runs up the stairs quickly while John and I follow in his wake.

"Sherlock!" John says in a loud whisper, as Sherlock attempts to get into the unknown flat, "What if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Sherlock replies simply.

Sherlock busts into the flat. I follow him, curious, but slightly unwilling. John is extremely annoyed and unwilling as he follows Sherlock and me. Sherlock zips up the inside stairs as if it's his own flat.

"Where are we!?" John demands in a whisper.

"Sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat." Sherlock responds curtly.

"The to-be brother-in-law?" I say with a slight question in my voice, despite the fact that I know the answer.

Sherlock glances at me with a small, reluctant nod, "So… do you have us here because you think he stole the memory stick?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him for verification.

"Yes, and killed his prospective brother-in-law," He slips his magnifier out of his pocket, sliding it open, and looking at the window sill with it.

John and I step closer to look. What looks to be speckled dried blood is under the examination of Sherlock's magnifying glass.

"Why'd he do it, then?" John asks.

We hear the door open to the flat. "Let's ask him," Sherlock utters.

John walks toward the door of the room, his hand on his gun. I follow but keep my distant, being unarmed. When Harrison sees us, he lifts up the bike he is hauling into his flat, ready to attack.

"Don't," John advised as he whips out his gun and points it threateningly at him.

He puts the bike down in despair. John and I _escort_ him into the room in which Sherlock had been examining the window sill. He sits down on the sofa, with an air of entrapment and finality. We confront him about the death of West.

"It wasn't meant to," Harrison said shakily, sweating and breathing heavily. Sherlock looks indifferent and superior as the man writhes. "What's Lucy gonna say?" he frets, "Jesus…"

"Why did you kill him?" John asks.

"It was an accident," he answers tremulously, Sherlock makes a skeptical, "hmph," sound. Desperately, Harrison pleads, "I _swear_ it was."

Sherlock looks annoyed and directs his words icily at the criminal, "But stealing the missile defense plans wasn't an _accident_, was it?" he demands coldly.

"I started dealing drugs," Harrison begins his tale, "I mean the bike thing's a great cover, right? I d- I don't know how it started," he says, breathing heavily. "I just got outta my depth. I owed people thousands. Serious people. Then at Westie's engagement party, he starts talking about his job. I mean usually, he's so careful, but that night, after a few pints, he really opened up. He told me about his missile plans. Beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick, he waved it in front of me. I know about those things gettin' lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not." He says, looking up at us, "And there it was. And I thought, well, I thought it would be worth a fortune. I was pretty easy gettin' the thing off 'im, we was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew." He pauses his tale.

"What happened?" I ask.

"We… had a tussle, and he fell down the stairs. I was gonna call the ambulance… but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do. So I dragged 'im in 'ere. I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a nice little idea came into your head," I say, grimacing, thinking of the train.

He nods, "I dragged him out to the train way. I put his body on top of a train." He stops, looking down.

"Carrying Andrew West way away from here," Sherlock finishes, pulling back the curtain and looking out the window. "His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't hit a stretch of track that curved."

"Points," interjected John.

"Exactly," Sherlock responded quickly.

"Do you still have the memory stick?" I inquire of him.

He nods in response.

"Fetch it for me," Sherlock says commandingly, distantly, "If you wouldn't mind," letting him know that it doesn't matter.

Resignedly, Joe Harrison pushes himself off the sofa to get the stick.

"Distraction over, the game continues," He says to John and me in an undertone.

"Or maybe that's over too. We've had _nothing_ from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember?" he asks in a slight whisper, "It's a countdown. We've only had four." We all look around at Harrison as he gets the memory stick. Sherlock pockets it and we head out the door, calling Lestrade about the criminal behind the case of Andrew West.

_A/N_

_Well- I don't know if anyone cares about this, but here's another chapter! So far no one has reviewed or followed or favorited out of my 80 views, but I guess it's really just for me. I know I'm having fun writing it!_

_~Larkspur_


	6. Chapter 6: The Pool

**_Chapter 6_**

**The Pool**

This evening I relax in my flat, tired after a day of mysteries and adventures. I have another one of those feelings, though. Sherlock was right; we'd only had four pips. This time, I don't worry about any denial about the feeling and simply get out my laptop. I go to Sherlock's website, where he posts his solved mysteries to the bomber. My eyes widen. Sherlock has posted another reply, "Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight."

I feel annoyance, incredulity, fear and excitement flood me as I read this short and simple message. Sherlock messaged to meet the bomber. He is planning on going alone. How _stupid_ could a genius be? I can't just sit in my flat though, doing nothing. I search the place and address of the pool where Carl Powers died on the internet, because there could be no other pool that Sherlock would be referring to.

It's already 9PM. I set my alarm for 11PM, and try to get some sleep so that I won't be going on no rest. I can't, though. I toss and turn, my mind whirring, my emotions strung-tight, my limbs buzzing with nervous excitement. I sigh, and sit up, turning the alarm off. I sit on my bed, staring into the darkness, thinking, glancing at the time every so often. At 11PM, I exhale, fear and excitement filling me up. I put on my normal clothes and slip on some shoes and socks. It's 11:15 when I leave my apartment. I get a late-night cab, and catch a ride to the address of "The Pool."

I arrive at the pool at 11:30. Half an hour early, just as I had planned. I walk around the pool, and then stand in a secure corner, waiting. I couldn't let Sherlock come alone, the idiot. I'm tense, ready to react at any moment, looking around the room, feeling as safe as I can in my corner, with both of my sides and my back guarded.

I hear a noise. Curious, I quietly step, going to investigate. My back feels cold as I leave the relative safety of the wall. I look around the edge of the door frame where I thought I'd heard the noise.

Suddenly there is a hand clamping a cloth around my mouth and an arm around my chest, pinning my own arms. My eyes widen; now _I'm_ the stupid one. Why did I leave my safe and guarded corner? The noise was a trap. All this goes through my head in a second. I attempt to struggle, but I inhale through the cloth, and I suddenly feel woozy and sleepy and my head hurts. My vision is suddenly blurry. I can't think straight. My body goes limp, and the rag is removed. Strong arms lift up my light, limp body, and through a haze I see my captor climbing up the stairs of the pool.

In my daze, I'm tied with strong rope to a chair, my hands behind my back, my feet tied to the legs of the chair, and ropes are tied around my diaphragm to the back of my chair. My head sags on my chest, and my limbs are numb.

In a few minutes, however, my vision becomes clearer and my head stops hurting. I can think again, and I can feel as I tense my muscles uselessly against the ropes. I had been drugged with the rag. I had been lured from my corner of safety, where no one could have grabbed me from behind.

I can feel someone behind me, a black mass. Fear now courses, more real than ever, through my veins. I'm completely helpless, at the mercy of whom I assume to be the bomber, or at least a puppet he controls. My heart beats quickly, a panicked bird fluttering in my chest.

I hear a door in the pool open. I'm in a place where I can see down into the pool, but with the shadows and objects around me, there's no one who'd be able to see me. I open my mouth to call for help, but as I see that the person entering isn't Sherlock, I quickly close it again. _This_ must be the bomber. The person behind all of the murders and kidnappings. He has neatly trimmed black hair, dark eyes, a pale complexion, with dark, arched eyebrows. I can hear as he climbs up the steps towards me.

He climbs up the steps, and stops in front of the chair which holds me hostage, looking down at me curiously, intently. He looks at me as if I'm a new toy he's considering whether he likes or not. I glare back, determined not to let the fear show.

He smiles playfully at me, but the effect is evil, terrifying, instead of making his features brighter, like a smile should, they seem to turn darker, more menacing. "So… you're the new _pet_ Sherlock's taken to, are you?" he asks, that evil grin playing across his face.

I look him the eye, even as my heart pounds and my throat feels tight, "I'm no pet of Sherlock's," I spit, trying not to sound as afraid as I am, "He doesn't even like me."

The man raises his eyebrows, a fake, unconvincing, teasing simper enters his face, "Oh, I'm not so sure _that's _true."

"It is." I say with spite, masking my fear.

"Oh!" he exclaims, looking as though he likes his new _toy_, "You're a bit of a feisty one, are you?"

I don't say anything this time, just look defiantly at him, even as my blood slowly turns cold. I see no way out of this situation. No way at all. The only way is if this man lets me go, and I _don't_ see that happening.

He grins again, baring his teeth, "Smart of you, to come half an hour early, and to stay in your nice little _corner,_" he concedes, "_But_, unfortunately for you, I had my man here," I hear him clap the man standing sentry behind me on the shoulder, "An hour early." He then looks at his watch, raising his eyebrows, "Oh, sorry," he says, "My play mate is almost here! Got to go!" He flashes me a smile and gives me a wink, waving in a good-natured, yet _evil-_natured way. Concern and anxiety squeeze my chest. What was he going to do to Sherlock? I wonder desperately. What was he going to do to _me?_ I struggle feebly against the ropes. As he leaves, he makes a strange hand gesture at the man behind me, and I feel a gag being tied in my mouth, and shoved into the back of my throat. I watch as he walks out the door of the pool. Dread weights my stomach like a solid weight.

I know it's only minutes, but it feels like hours as I sit there, trepidation pumping like poison through my veins. I hear the door of the pool open again, and see Sherlock entering. I try to make a noise, but the rag cuts off my vocal cords at the back of my throat and I can't make a peep. The night lights shimmer on the water as Sherlock slowly strides farther into the pool, his footsteps echoing off the tile walls and floors. He looks up and around, turning in a circle.

Then he turns back around and lifts up the memory stick, saying loudly into the silence, "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present."

I want to scream at him to leave, to be quiet, but I can't produce a sound, not even "Mmm's" I try to wiggle the chair back and forth, but to no avail. I look around to see what's stopping the chair from moving, and standing there is a man in a black mask, his eyes cold and expressionless, standing so stoically behind me, holding the chair, keeping it from moving an inch.

Frustrated, I turn back around to watch Sherlock. Sherlock continues talking, a small, pleased smirk on his face, "Oh, that's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little _puzzles,_ making me dance. All to distract me from this." He says, jerking his hand with the stick slightly. He turns slowly around, silently waiting.

Then a door off the side of the pool opens. I expect to see the man who had toyed with me earlier, but it isn't him. It's John. My eyes widen. He's wearing his thick winter coat. Could he be bombed? It couldn't be him in league with the other man, not with the expression on his face.

"Evening," he says emotionlessly. He blinks rapidly, "This is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks shocked, "_John_," he says in a loud whisper, his eyes wide, "What the hell…"

"Bet you never saw this coming," he says.

Sherlock takes a few steps closer, and realization dawns upon his face.

John takes a deep breath, and opens his coat to reveal what I had suspected: a bomb. "What… would you like me… to make him say… next." John says in fragmented phrases. Sherlock steps slowly towards him, looking up and around. For one moment I think he sees me and my heart skips hopefully, but then he looks away again, continuing to turn. "Gottla-gear, Gottla-gear, gottala-gear,"

"Stop it," Sherlock says coldly and angrily into the seemingly empty pool.

"Nice touch, this," John says the words that are not his, "The pool… where little Carl died. I stopped him." John closes his eyes, swallowing hard, tilting his head to the side, "I can stop John Watson, too… Stop his heart."

"Who are you!?" Sherlock demanded into the echoing silence.

I hear another door open, and this time it's not John's voice. It's the man with the evil, playful smile's voice. "I gave you my number," he says in a mock-upset voice from out of sight. "I thought you might call," he says in the same silly, mocking voice. He steps out from the door way, a sinister look on his face, walking slowly towards Sherlock and John. "Is that a British branding L1A9 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock whips out his gun, "Both," he says simply.

"Jim Moriarty," the man says with his hands casually in his pockets. "Hi!" he says in a singsong voice. "Jim!?" he says in mock-incredulity, "Jim from the hospital? Huh… Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose, that was rather the _point_," He finishes, stopping and facing Sherlock with a satisfied, but more serious look on his face.

John stands there, the red laser still on him. Sherlock glances at the red beam on John's chest.

Moriarty answers the unasked question, "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He pauses, and then continues, "I've given you a _glimpse_ Sherlock, just a tinsy _glimpse_, of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see." He raises his eyebrows, "Like you!"

Sherlock, still aiming his gun at Moriarty, says, "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me. To get rid of my lover's nasty sister."

Moriarty grins broadly and walks closer.

Sherlock continues, "Dear Jim, please will you _fix_ it for me to disappear to South America."

"Just so," Moriarty voices.

"Consulting Criminal; brilliant," Sherlock breathes.

Moriarty closes his eyes briefly in pleasure, "Isn't it?... No one ever gets to me… and no one ever will,"

Sherlock loads his gun, pressing the cock back, "I did," he expresses with conviction.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way!" He says in a slightly singsong voice.

"Thank-you," Sherlock replies.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment," Moriarty answers.

"Yes you did," Sherlock states solidly.

"Yeah, okay I did," Moriarty says, shrugging in an exaggerated fashion, "But the flirting's over, Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now!" he sings, striding forwarding. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: Back off. All though… I have _loved_ this. This little _game_ of ours, playing Jim from I.T." he says in a playfully dramatisized manner, "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died."

"That's what people DO!" he screams the last word, his face contorting into something horrendous, his shout echoing across the pool.

I struggle against my ropes again, and attempt to make a sound, but to no avail. I'm stuck here, simply watching, unable to say or do a thing. I wonder vaguely if Moriarty knew enough about me to know how _frustrating_ I would find that.

"I will stop you." Sherlock states.

"No you won't," Moriarty says, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.

"You alright?" Sherlock asks, looking at John, who doesn't respond.

"You can talk," he tells John playfully, leaning into his ear, "Johnny boy, go ahead." John doesn't say a thing. Moriarty pauses, then, "Oh, yes, Sherlock I wanted to tell you… I have another little someone you care about under my control." He says, pulling down the corners of his mouth, and raising his eyebrows, and then smiling broadly again.

I struggle again, this time more violently against my bonds, trying to scream, shout, _anything_. I _hated _someone else being in control. Sherlock simply looks confused.

Moriarty tilts his head to one side, "Yes, she was smart, and brave, to come here early for you. But, unfortunately, your little duckling got caught! And now her wings are clipped." He says, happily, playfully.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he finally figured it out, "Neries," he breathes, surprised, then, narrowing his eyes at Moriarty, "I don't care about her," he says carelessly.

Moriarty's grin widened, "Yes, you do." He says in his playful singsong voice, "And quite a feisty little pet of yours, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock holds out the memory stick, glancing quickly at Moriarty, and then looking back at Moriarty, "Take it!" he commands.

"Oh…_that,_" he says, striding towards Sherlock, "the missile plans," he whispers, kissing the memory stick. "Boring" he sings, and tosses it playfully into the pool, "I could of got them anywhere."

At that moment, John runs up behind him and grabs Moriarty in a tight grip, "Sherlock, run!"

"Oh-ho!" Moriarty exclaims, pleased, "Good! Very Good!" He yells, laughing.

"Your sniper," John breathes in Moriarty's ear, "If he pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

"Ah, he's sweet, I can see why you like having him around, but then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. You're so touchingly loyal," he directs at John. "Whoops!" he yells, looking at Sherlock. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson," he says as a red laser appears on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock shifts his eyes down. John immediately lets go of Moriarty. "Gotcha'" Moriarty says with an evil giggle, and then dusts his jacket off, "Westwood. Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?—to you."

"Oh… let me guess. I get killed," Sherlock drawls, bored.

"Kill you?" Moriarty screws up his face, "Ah, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyways, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I will _burn_ you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that that's not quite true."

"Welp," Moriarty says, raising his eyebrows and pulling down the corners of his mouth, "I better be off. Well, it's so nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now." Sherlock asks.

"Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he opens his eyes wide, and opens his mouth in a perfect, comical "O." He smiles, " 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really, I would. And just a tinsy bit… _disappointed._ And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Cho. Sherlock Holmes."

He walks off. "Catch… you… later," Sherlock says, keeping his eyes and gun on Moriarty as he walks towards John.

"No you won't!" Moriarty sings as he walks through the door.

I struggle and squirm again, but I know it's hopeless.

Sherlock immediately starts ripping the coat with the bomb off of John, "Alright!? Are you alright!?" he demands.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Sherlock—Sherlock!" Sherlock pulls the coat off and spins it away from them.

John sits down against the wall, breathing heavily, while Sherlock goes to check the door.

Sherlock strides back in, antsy, scratching the back of his head with his gun.

I scream silently at them, _"Idiots! Get out of here! There are still snipers and a bomb! And a neary-by psychopath mafia leader!"_

I had hoped vaguely that I might be released after Moriarty left, but to no avail. My heart sinks. Am I to be kept? Killed? Tortured? Given back to Sherlock in mangled shreds? Is that part of the process Moriarty would use to _burn_ the heart out of him?

"Are you okay?" John asks Sherlock.

Quickly, frenziedly, Sherlock answers, "Yeah? What? Me? Yeah, I'm fine….That, uh, thing that you did, that, um, that you offered to do, that was, um…good,"

"I'm glad no one saw that," says John.

"Hmm?" Sherlock wonders.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

_Not no one._ I think, though I'm not sure I would really count in that paricular category.

"People do little else." Sherlock replies.

John and Sherlock chuckle good-naturedly. I get more annoyed and worried, they have to get _out_ of here while they still can.

John gets to his feet, "What about Neries?" he asks, concerned.

I would have made a sound of annoyance, impatience and frustration, but I was gagged. Why don't they just get _out_ of here, before something bad happens?

A shadow of something—concern? Annoyance?—crosses over Sherlock's face for a second, but he shrugs, turning away from John.

Then laser beams are back on Sherlock and John. What I predicted. _Why_ hadn't they just gotten out of there? The door to the pool opens again, and Moriarty reenters. "Sorry boys! I'm _so_ changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be frank with myself, it is my only weakness!" He says, gesturing, sounding buoyant and playful. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Moriarty says, shaking his head. "I would try to convince you, but, everything I have to say has already crossed your _mind._" He says, accenting the last word with a funny voice.

"Probably my answer's crossed yours," Sherlock responds, swinging around and aiming his gun at Moriarty, and then slowly moving it down to point at the bomb. Moriarty smirks a little. I know it. Sherlock is going to pull that trigger. It's the end. I close my eyes, waiting for the loud sound, the heat, the explosion, and the blankness following.


End file.
